


the last memories of the dead

by jade304



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eye Gouging, Eye Trauma, Gen, Gore, Nightmares, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 14:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17983205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jade304/pseuds/jade304
Summary: It’s the gift of their bloodline, said to have been given to the first Oracle by the gods themselves. The ability to see and comfort the lost souls that wandered Eos, the broken down remnants of people who, for one reason or another, were unable to move on into the afterlife. Waiting in an eternal limbo for the arrival of the chosen king. The duty of the oracles, then, is to be the bridges between worlds; the connection between the dead and the living, the living and the gods.To Ravus, it’s not so much a gift as it is a curse.Even if he closes his eyes, they still wait there for him.





	the last memories of the dead

**Author's Note:**

> tags are not a joke. non-sexual gore very involved.
> 
> the whole inspiration for this au verse, a weird crossover mashup of canon and almost-canon, comes from the supposed leak/headcanon/??? about versus xiii ravus blinding himself to avoid seeing visions that stella-luna and noctis do.
> 
> (or...something like that? this game has had so many wild theories before, during, and two years post-release that i don't know what was made up and what is supposedly "real versus lore". the character who eventually became ravus wears a white mask-looking piece under their hood, though, so this one might have some weight to it.)
> 
> the lore behind this is me shoving ff15 canon and vs13 "canon" together and making happy noises. just roll with it?. hit that like and subscribe button if i should gnaw on this verse in a not terrible entry.
> 
> anyway, this is that terrible entry.

Ravus isn’t sure how Lunafreya does it.

They both sit in her parlor with the woman; Lunafreya and her speak in soft voices, hands clasped together. His sister’s hands glow with a soft green light, enveloping the woman’s own arms up to the elbow, the light creeping up further. Ravus’s hands glow similarly, a soft blue, but they don’t reach out to touch her. He sits uncomfortably in a chair a distance away.

The smell is almost unbearable.

Half her face has rotted; it creeps out of a wound in her head like the scourge, dark mashes of gore frozen down the sides of her head, thin wisps of hair still visible. Her eye on that side is missing. Where Lunafreya’s magic crawls up her body, it illuminates what appear to be some kind of insects nesting, albeit frozen in time, in the empty socket.

The same face she wore the day she died.

She looks over at Ravus and asks him a question, and Ravus’s magic winks out in an instant. The woman has vanished, leaving only Lunafreya standing there. He sits there, shaking terribly, as only his sister’s voice continues to speak.

The moment Lunafreya’s hands dim, Ravus picks up the bin he’d carted into the room and spits into it. She sighs.

“I’m glad you at least waited until they were gone this time.”

“Luna–“ Ravus growls, before another wave of nausea hits him and he’s sick into the bin in earnest. Luna has another drawn-out sigh. She reaches over and pats him gently on the shoulder, then flips his bangs out of his face.

 

It’s the gift of their bloodline, said to have been given to the first Oracle by the gods themselves. The ability to see and comfort the lost souls that wandered Eos, the broken down remnants of people who, for one reason or another, were unable to move on into the afterlife. Waiting in an eternal limbo for the arrival of the chosen king. The duty of the oracles, then, is to be the bridges between worlds; the connection between the dead and the living, the living and the gods.

To Ravus, it’s not so much a gift as it is a curse.

Bridges aren’t closed, and there’s no way to close his eyes to them. It’s frightening how many people cannot rest; for as long as he could remember, they stopped to speak to him even as a small child stuck to his mother’s ankles, pleading for his help. His guidance. Dozens, hundreds, _thousands_ of constantly echoing voices, begging for the chance to be heard, to speak. To have at least a small part of the thread that ties them to the middle plane to be severed, so that they can rest in peace.

The dead do not rest – he knows that much, when the people that he speaks to get up and walk away. There will be no true rest for them, no reunion with other loved ones that pass on, until the king ascends the throne. The oracles can at least ease their burden in the meanwhile.

Even if he closes his eyes, they still wait there for him.

The blood of the oracle has existed as long as the line of the chosen king, as long as the starscourge has blighted the earth. Their duty is to all three; to aid the chosen when he shall arrive, to ease the suffering of those afflicted with the star’s plague, to ease the torment of the dead.

The curse of their family, indeed.

 

He can’t sleep.

Whenever he closes his eyes, he thinks of the fire. How Lunafreya at twelve sat there, amongst the burning flames of Tenebrae, and began reaching out for the people who had died not more than five feet in front of her. She reached out for each one, as Ravus sat there, sobbing and choking on smoke, cradling the body of their mother on his lap. What little there was that he could grab of her. He thinks about Luna, surrounded by a circle of people who had died; of Luna, touched briefly on the shoulder by those who felt comfortable, who were ready and able to leave the world behind.

He tries to roll over and fall back asleep, but the memory of creeping flames, of lost spirits scattered to the wind, keeps him awake.

 

_Even in death, the oracle does not rest. Only once the darkness is dispelled is their calling fulfilled._

 

He must have fallen asleep, because he wakes up sometime later sweaty and disoriented to the sound of his door creaking open. Still half-dreaming, he automatically reaches out a hand, blue light called forth immediately.

Someone takes it.

He closes his eyes; he doesn’t need to look at them, per se, and whoever this is is _especially_ rude to be interrupting him in his sleep.

The hand feels feather-light, as if it were made of paper. Long, thin fingers wrap around his own; he can see the glow through his closed eyelids. The spirit traces along the lines of his palm; the texture of their hand is strangely chalky. He sighs and sits up, eyes still closed.

“ _Blessed stars of life and light,”_ He intones, tired. The hand continues to trace along his own as his magic flares, reaching out for them. It feels like pulling them in close for an embrace, almost, as he feels blue tendrils creep along their body. Mottled skin, once perhaps smooth, now scarred and ruined. Likely another victim of the fire. They don’t speak very much, either; most of the residents here don’t when they seek guidance.

He waits patiently for them to say something, to take up the prayer with him. They do nothing; the spirit continues to touch him, drawing comfort from the contact with a living being. This isn’t unsual, either.

It’s a bit unsual, of course, that the spirit reaches out, past their glowing connection, and brushes the side of his cheek.

His eyes fly open.

The woman’s eyes are empty and hollow, her skin a pale, ashy grey; it almost looks as if it’s flaked off in places, glowing embers underneath, as if she’s burning from within. What little hair she still has has been torched away, but the ends further from her skin remain a pale blonde.

She holds his face in her hand and smiles sadly at him; more skin peels from her face, revealing brittle, burned bone underneath, as if she were a papercraft hastily glued together. The blue light of his hands sparks. She sighs, and it sounds like a name.

Ravus flees.

He throws open his bedroom door and collapses into the bathroom, reaching for the sink tap and splashing his face with icy cold water. He feels as if he’s coated in ash, and the woman’s face won’t leave his mind.

_Ravus._

_Ravus._

_Ravus._

It’s not only her voice in his mind, but hundreds of others; the never-ending chorus in the back of his mind, and he can see them; standing in the doorway behind him, the woman still behind them. He refuses to look at her, refuses to acknowledge it.

When all of them passed on, he knew, holding her ruined body in his arms, that she could not. That he wouldn’t, that Luna wouldn’t, that all of them would be cursed to walk this blighted earth for eternity. That the oracles never rest, even in death.

The curse of their family.

“Leave me,” Ravus bites out, hoping to push them back. They don’t; they whisper, again, one single voice.

_RavusRavusRavusRavus._

“Please,” he says, voice breaking. “Please.”

He feels a hand on his shoulder.

_Ravus._

“Leave me!” He cries, whirling around with his eyes squeezed shut. His arm collides with something solid; he hears a dull thud as a body hits the ground. He smells blood, sobs. “Leave me _be!”_

The one that he hit gives an airy groan. He tumbles past them, out the door, past the others, all calling out for him.

_Ravus._

_Ravus._

There’s nowhere to run in this place – not when so many have died here. He feels hands brushing up against him, his eyes still tightly shut. His hands still glow with magic; they’re all drawn to it, moths to a flame, and he finds he cannot conjure it away.

 _Please,_ he thinks, _I’m not. I can’t. I can’t help you. I can’t save you._

_Ravus._

_Ravus._

_Ravus._

The voices swell in his ears, and he trips over his own feet and falls to his knees. Stop. Stop.

Stop.

“Stop it!” He screams. “All of you! Stop!”

_Ravus._

_Ravus, listen._

_Ravus, we need you._

_Ravus, help my daughter._

_Ravus, is that you?_

_Ravus._

_Ravus, my son needs you._

_Ravus._

_Ravus...?_

Ravus.

_Ravus, I can’t do this alone._

_Ravus._

_Ravus, what are you doing?_

_Ravus._

_Ravus, she’s here with us, isn’t she?_

_Ravus._

_Ravus, please open your eyes._

“What do you want me to see?!” He screams at the last soul, opening his eyes. They all stare at him, surrounding him, a wall of people. All of them, died horrible deaths in the fire, skin burned red or melted away, some missing limbs entirely. Others, spared the fire, riddled with bullet wounds. All of them, holding out a hand to him. All of them, asking. Only one of them, sitting in front of him, patient, waiting.

“I can’t.” He says. He refuses to look at the sitting figure. “I can’t do it.”

_Ravus!_

He’s crying now, softer.

“I can’t do it, mother. I’m sorry.”

_Ravus, stop!_

His hands reach for his face, and he digs his thumbs firmly into his eyelids, breathily heavily, teeth gritted. Lights burst behind his eyes, and he exterts more pressure, and _screams._ The pain is secondary to the sheer _relief_ he’s suddenly filled with, and he feels liquid gush from his eye sockets, down his cheeks. The lights fade, and he howls in agony, hooking his thumbs into the socket and _digging._

“Ravus!”

He feels one of the souls grab his arms, pull away, and he feels something in his face _give,_ tear, and he feels something warm drip down his cheeks. He’s heaving sobs as they hold his hands out in front of him. The pain finally hits him and he screams.

“There, I can’t – I can’t see you anymore, please leave me _alone –“_

“ _Gods,_ Ravus – help! Someone! Anyone!”

Something presses against his temples, and he feels the warmth of magic creep across his face; the bleeding slows, but the pain is excruciating still. He dissolves into sobs:

“Luna?”

“Ravus,” she says, and he can barely understand her beneath her own shaking crying, “there’s no one here. There’s no souls here. It’s just me. Listen to me.”

He never noticed the room grow so quiet; he hears nothing but a high pitched ringing in his ears. “Ravus,” Lunafreya says again, “stay awake. Please, stay awake and listen to me.”

“It wasn’t a dream,” He hiccups. The ringing is persistent. “I...I saw mother, and the others, and they...I...”

“Ravus?”

He reaches out for his sibling; his fingers brush her forehead, and he feels that she’s bleeding. He laughs weakly and sways in place.

_Ravus._

_Ravus._

_Ravus, please,!_

_Ravus._

_Someone!_

_Help us._

_Ravus._

If only he could tear his ears off as well, so he wouldn’t have to _hear_ them.


End file.
